by Alex Amit
“We’ll figure something out,” he replies though I’ve said nothing, and after a few seconds of thinking, he loosens the clothesline that hangs on the wall, pulling it to the other side. Then he brings in a sheet from the small closet, and hangs it, giving me some privacy.
With my back to him and with closed eyes, as if I was a little girl hiding my eyes with my palms and not wanting to be seen, I start cleaning myself. The rough soap scratches my skin and hurts me, when will all this end? What will he do to me? I must not think about it now, I must hurry to clean up and get dressed, to be safe again.
My hands are still shaking from the cold bathwater, as my fingers struggle with the buttons of the grey dress. I hate this color. Since it all started two years ago, this color makes me shiver. Endless rows of German soldiers wearing grey-green uniforms, marching on the Champs Elysees, ignoring the shocked people watching them in fear. They looked like giants to me with their helmets and rifles, like this man. I’m afraid of him too, despite the smell of cooked food slipping through the sheet that hides me. Will he give me some of his food?
Two plates are waiting on the table, and we sit and eat the stew he has prepared in silence. I think he even put some meat inside, I have not eaten meat in so long. After I finish all my food, carefully cleaning it all with the spoon, as much as I can, he pours another heaping spoonful of stew into my plate and I finish it all too. Doesn’t he want to ask me some questions? Where is my family? Why am I running away? What is it like to be a stinking Jew?
“Thanks.” I stand in the corner of the room next to the wall as he arranges the bed, taking another thin blanket out of the closet and places it on the floor, straightening it gently with his big hands.
“You are welcome.”
“They took my parents and I ran away.”
“I know.”
“I was a normal girl, and I have a little brother, Jacob, they also took him. The police just came to our house a few days ago, and I’ve been running ever since.” I can’t stop talking, even though he does not ask. In peaceful movements he arranges the bed and the blanket on the floor and goes to the bathroom corner, closing the sheet curtain behind his back as he cleans himself, and I look at the iron bed and the neat blanket on the wooden floor. Will he attack me? Can I trust him?
“I went to school and I speak German and some English, and I was the best in my class, but one day they said I couldn’t go to school anymore, and I was sitting at home, thinking that I hated my mother, pretending I was already asleep when she would come into my room at night to talk to me, and now I miss her so much.”
I keep on talking, not knowing if he is already asleep or lying in the dark, looking at the ceiling and listening to me. Maybe my words are keeping him up?
The feeling is strange to me and I can’t sleep. My eyes are wide open in the dark as I lie in a foreign bed next to an unfamiliar man who lies on the floor next to me. Every now and then I move my body until I hear the creaking of the metal springs of the bed, can I trust him and close my eyes? I want to ask for his name, and why he saved me, and what happened to the yellow badge that was lying on the floor, and how the cops did not notice it, but I am embarrassed and instead keep on talking about myself in the dark. Maybe he is listening.
Latin Quarter
My eyes slowly open to the morning sun, searching for the floral curtains of my room. In a moment, Mom will enter my room and get mad at me because it’s late and I have to get up and go to the grocery store on Capone Street, to stand in the endless line for flour, or oil. In a moment I’ll start arguing with her that because we are Jews I have to stand at the end of the line until nothing is left. These are not the curtains of my room.
The blanket is tossed aside, and my bare feet touch the floor, feeling the rough wood while my eyes search around, looking for escape routes.
The small room is quiet and has no one but me. The table in the kitchen is still in the same place and the three chairs have not been moved either. The sheet placed on the clothesline for privacy is rolled aside and there is no one behind it, but the blanket that was spread out last night at the foot of the bed is folded on the side of the room beside the wall.
It takes me a while to calm down. Where did he go? Why did I not wake up when he got up? I anxiously check the room, slowly walking around and looking for suspicious signs.
“I’ll be back in the evening.” That’s all he left me in a sloppy note written on a piece of cardboard on the kitchen table, next to a plate with two slices of bread and a pear. Yesterday’s knife was back in the drawer, but I pull it out again, placing it on the table within reach of my hand.
Is everything all right?
The daylight penetrates the small window through the closed curtain, illuminating the apartment in a yellowish hue, and it looks slightly larger and more neglected. The peeling stains of the paint from the walls are noticeable, and the brown door also needs painting. The kitchen has dark marks, and the wooden floor is not as smooth as in our house, but I do not care about any of that. I have food here and I’m less scared than I’ve been in the last few days, that’s enough.
One slice of bread for now, and the other slice of bread I’ll eat at noon. I put the pear in my dress pocket, in case of emergency, and I allow myself to cut another thin slice of bread, convincing myself that he won’t notice when he returns in the evening. What time is it?
When I pull back the curtain, I can see the street in daylight. A man is walking by and a boy plays in the street with a ball, throws it on the wall and manages to catch it. I could not keep Jacob.
Why didn’t I insist as Mom told me to? Why didn’t I pull him with me, ignoring his cries? We could be here together. With food and a place to sleep. I could look after him, show Mom that I’m helping. She always asked me to take care of him and I started arguing with her, and now they are gone.
My face is buried in a blanket while I cry and my body shakes and can’t calm down, as much as I try to convince myself that they are OK. It’s my fault Jacob is not here with me, in this small room, with food. If they return, I promise to myself that I will take care of him, wherever we go.
“We have to go,” he tells me in the evening, after I waited for hours in the dark apartment. I leaned against the window for most of the day, pulling the curtain slightly aside and watching the street for signs of danger, searching for policemen in blue uniforms or German soldiers wearing round helmets. Every now and then I left my position by the window and went to the locked door, bringing my ear to the keyhole and trying to hear if there were any steps coming up the stairs, stopping by the door, but the stairs were quiet.
Finally I notice the lights of the pickup truck emerging into the alley, and the vehicle disappears from my sight as it is probably parking near the entrance, I take the knife and wait close to the door, ready for anything.
The big man walks in and prepares dinner for both of us. He keeps quiet while eating and says nothing, even if he notices that I took a slice from his bread. Once more he serves me an extra helping of the stew after I clean the plate with my spoon, but at the end of the meal, after placing the dishes in the sink, he turns around and stands in front of me.
“We have to go.”
“Where?”
“To people I know, they will take care of you.”
I must trust him, he is a good man, he will take care of me.
Like an obedient Jew I do not say a word. I get up and walk to the front door, giving one last look at the room that had been my shelter for a day. The knife lies on the counter, I wish I could hide it in my dress pocket, but it is too late now. At least I have a pear and a slice of bread.
He takes a look into the staircase, checks that no one is there, and before we go out of the building into the street, he places his hand on my arm and stops me at the dark entrance, checking that the street is empty of people. Inside the back of the van, behind the pile of boxes, he spreads an old blanket on the floor of the trunk, and I sit on it, but then he
surprises me.
“Do not take it off during the ride.” He pulls a dark blindfold from his pocket and ties it around my eyes before I crawl into my hiding place.
“Why?”
“That’s the way it must be.”
“Will they do something to me?” My fingernails scratch my palm.
“You are safe, everything is OK.”
And the trunk door slams and locks, leaving me in double darkness. My fingers carefully feel the blindfold cover my eyes as I breathe heavily. Where am I being taken? What will he do with me?
He’s not a bad man, he’ll protect me. The jumps of the van and the noise of the engine do not let me relax, not even when I try to quietly sing a lullaby, and not even when the van stops and I hear voices in German. My body tenses and my mouth opens to scream, everything is not OK.
“Where to?” the German man asks him in bad French.
“I bring supply to the market.”
“Why are you going at such a late hour?”
“I have to get a shipment of chickens.”
“Do you have certificates?”
My ear is close to the metal side of the trunk, but I do not listen to him and the German stranger’s conversation, but to the other voices around the vehicle, walking and speaking to each other in German.
“Do you think we’ll go out this weekend?”
“Light up under the trunk. I don’t think they’ll let us out.”
“I’m tired of checking all those cars.”
“What is he carrying in the trunk?”
“Did you see how big he is? How did he get into this small van?”
“Maybe he’s smuggling something?”
“This big one? He can smuggle all the Jews of France under his shirt.”
“And there will be room left for some resistance fighters.”
“I hate the resistance; they scared the hell out of me.”
“Shall we check the trunk?”
For two years now I have been shaking in fear of the German soldiers. Every time I go out into the street, I look for the grey-green uniforms, afraid to meet them on my way. My eyes scan for round helmets, and if I notice one, I look for another way to go. For two years now, I’ve had nightmares, dreaming of them stopping me in the street and putting me against the wall. I don’t dare walk by the Opera and Concord Square, where the German Headquarters is located. I try to listen to every word while my hands tremble.
Everything will be alright, the big man will save me, the people he’s taking me to will save me, someone will save me. What are they saying?
“Let our stupid sergeant decide.”
“Yes, he thinks he can speak French.”
“Or detect French smugglers.”
“I hope he lets us go out this weekend.”
“You can go.” I hear the sergeant in his bad French. Please don’t change your mind.
“Have you ever dated a French girl?”
But my ears don’t hear the rest of their conversation, while the van continues along the way until it stops again. This time, the big man gives me a hand to help me get out of the trunk, supporting me as I get down with shaky legs, searching for stable ground and walking slowly with my eyes covered. Only weak machine noises can be heard around me, where is he taking me?
“Be careful, there are stairs going down.” My small hand is holding his big hand, can I trust him? Will I hear German words again?
Philip
“Sorry, we have no place for her.”
My fingers grip the black blindfold I’ve just removed from my eyes, while trying to adjust to the light of the yellow ceiling lamp, examining the interior of the basement and the stranger who does not bother to look at me.
He’s wearing brown pants and a white tank top; his dark hair is in a quiff and he’s a little older and a little taller than me. He stands in front of us for a moment, looks at me for a split-second, and then turns his back and continues his business inside the dirty, machine-laden workshop. My eyes look at his back and the pistol in his belt.
“Please, you must help me.” Even though he is not looking, my eyes beg him as I raise my voice, trying to overcome the noise of the rattling machines around.
He looks up to me, while holding a printed poster in his dirty hands, as if noticing my presence for the first time.
“I’m sorry, since the Gestapo started the big deportation operation, we have a lot of fugitives. The whole resistance is full of Jews trying to get out of Paris, to the south or to cross the border into neutral Spain. You are not the only one.”
“They took my family.”
“I’m sorry, really, but I have no hiding places left, and the roads are full of German army checkpoints. The escape routes to the south are closed.” He turns his back to me again.
“I have nowhere to go.” I raise my voice and talk to his back while he is busy with the printing machine, hitting hard on one of the handles.
“Maybe in a few months, things will change, but until then, I can’t help you, I’m sorry.” He tries to shake the handle by force.
“They will kill me.” I approach him and place my hand on his back. He must hear me, but he does not answer. His brown eyes look at me sadly for a moment, but then he turns to the printing machine again, striking the metal handle once more and cursing it.
“I’m willing to do anything you ask.” I have nothing left to lose, this basement with this man who carries a gun in his belt, and the noise of the machines in the background, are my last chance to live.
“I’m sorry, really, I can’t get you out of Paris.” And he turns his back to me for the last time, moving away from me, and I look at the back of his neck and at the printing machine that emits paper leaflets at a monotonous pace, another leaflet and another and another.
“I can give you some food I have,” he turns to me.
“No thanks, I’ll manage.”
No one will help me, not this man nor anyone else. What will another meal do for me? The black blindfold in my hand suddenly seems like a pleasant place to sink into, to wrap myself in the darkness.
I turn to the big man who has been standing on the sidelines all this time, handing him the piece of black cloth, but he ignores my hand and walks to the young man. He puts his huge arm around his shoulder, and they whisper with their backs to me, turning and looking at me occasionally.
“Do you speak German?” The young man approaches me, asking in bad German.
“Yes, I speak German.”
“How good?”
“As a native language.”
“How do you know German so well?”
“My family had a business in Germany when I was a child, so we lived there for a few years, until 1933, when the situation became problematic and my father sold his factory, got us out of there and back to France.” I answer him in German, not sure he understands me, while he stands close to me and his eyes check me out.
“Do you want me to sing you a song in German?”
“Do you read and write in German?”
“As I told you, it’s a native language for me.”
He gives me the poster, pulls a pencil out of his pocket and hands it to me.
“Write.”
“What do you want me to write?”
“Whatever you want.”
Stand up, damned of the Earth
Stand up, prisoners of starvation
Reason thunders in its volcano
This is the eruption of the end.
Of the past let us make a clean slate
Enslaved masses, stand up, stand up.
The world is about to change its foundation
We are nothing, let us be all.
My fingers write the words of the International, the socialist movement in France, on the back of the poster. Translated into German, in as round and beautiful handwriting as I can. My hand holds the paper on a metal plate of the printing machine, which keeps working and shaking as I’m writing, and I mumble the words as they are wr
itten.
“Here.” I give him the piece of paper.
He glances at the written words for a second and stuffs it in his pocket, looking at me again.
“And are you Jewish?”
“Yes.”
“You can call me Philip.”
“My name is Monique.” Maybe I’ve got a chance, is Philip his real name?
“Please sit here.” He grabs my arm, not by force or violence, and leads me to a simple metal chair which stands against the wall, taking a pile of papers from it and ordering me to sit.
“Wait here.”
My eyes follow him as he approaches another man in the corner of the basement, whom I had not noticed until now. Tall and thin, hunched over a wooden table laden with papers, stamps, cutting tools and ink jars. The tall man sits with his back to me, concentrating on his work by the table, until Philip leans over his shoulder and talks to him. They both look at me. He thinks for a moment, takes something out of the desk drawer, gets up and leaves his cluttered desk, standing in front of me.
“Are you Jewish?”
“Yes.”
“What is your name?”
“Monique.”
“What’s the last name?”
“Moreno.”
“What are you praying for on Friday?”
“Blessed are You, Lord our God, King of the universe, who has sanctified us with His commandments, and commanded us to kindle the light of the holy Shabbat.” And I remember Mom standing by the candles and blessing in her quiet voice while Dad stood next to her with a look of pride on his face.
“You bless before or after lighting the candles?” The stranger interrupts my thoughts.
“After.”
“And what do you do with your hands?”
“I cover my face with them.” I’ve got tears in my eyes thinking of Mom.
“Why are you crying? Are you stressed?”
“No.”
“So why are you crying?”
